


Fashion and Decor

by Jennichi



Series: Bancoran/Maraich 30 Kisses Challenge [8]
Category: Patalliro!
Genre: 30 Kisses Challenge, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents, Theme #9 dash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 04:43:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17318309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennichi/pseuds/Jennichi
Summary: If there is one thing Bancoran is good at, it’s moving in a suit. Even those who take the time to get a well-fitting suit know that this isn’t a clothing style conducive to cross-town sprints. Bancoran defies conventions. He treats all of his clothes like a second skin, whether he’s wearing scrounged camouflage or an expensive Italian design.Maraich likes to stay a few steps behind him at times like this, just to enjoy the view.





	Fashion and Decor

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to "Codes."

If there is one thing Bancoran is good at, it’s moving in a suit. Even those who take the time to get a well-fitting suit know that this isn’t a clothing style conducive to cross-town sprints. Bancoran defies conventions. He treats all of his clothes like a second skin, whether he’s wearing scrounged camouflage or an expensive Italian design.

Maraich likes to stay a few steps behind him at times like this, just to enjoy the view.

They’re running through a part of town that he can tell is bad news—it’s only quarter past nine and there’s no sign of life. It’s so silent that the pavement seems to absorb the sound of their footsteps.

True to his word (for once), Bancoran leads them straight to the meeting point. There is no doubt in Maraich’s mind that the drab and mousy man is there on business. He’s leaning against a building in an uncomfortable slouch, with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his puffy jacket and his shoulders hunched against an imaginary cold.

“Bait?” Maraich asks quietly. They’re keeping a safe distance.

Bancoran shakes his head. “Doubt it. He’s probably the one with the samples. Looks like a scientist.”

He doesn’t look anything like a scientist to Maraich. He doesn’t even look like an employed and useful human being, more like a punk with too much time on his hands, but he takes Bancoran’s word.

“Wait for the contact, then?”

This time Bancoran simply nods, and they lapse into silence. Minutes tick by slowly. Bancoran is the first to stir, glancing at his watch and frowning. “They’re late.”

Their target is starting to get restless as well. He keeps peering over his shoulders, and his body language is becoming less casual and more paranoid as time passes. Someone steps out of a side alley abruptly, and he jerks his hand partway out of his coat pocket, revealing the dark gleam of polished metal. Then he relaxes, cursing, and the gun is concealed once more.

“You’re late!”

The woman grins. “Missed me then?” Her American accent is thin, but obvious against his own.

“Stupid bitch.” Somehow it comes out as an endearment, and she seems amused rather than offended.

They get down to business then, and he hands over a thick envelope and something that looks like a tennis ball, if a tennis ball were bright red and weighed enough to cause someone to grunt as they took it.

Bancoran is perfectly still, recording everything he sees in some ordered compartment of his brain, senses straining to make sure he doesn’t miss a second. Maraich can feel it the moment Ban’s curiosity kicks in. He obviously doesn’t know what the red ball is either.

The man leaves, skulking off in a way guaranteed to draw the wrong kind of attention. It’s a miracle he’s still living. Maraich moves to follow, but Bancoran waves him back. The man isn’t important anymore, then, or MI-6 already knows all they need to about him. Maraich remembers the intercepted message and suspects the latter.

The woman doesn’t go far, and she doesn’t seem any more aware of her shadows than the man was. She takes them a few streets over, and Maraich isn’t certain whether he should be pleased or not that here there are signs of life once more. A normal neighborhood, harboring a foreign spy. If Ban’s luck plays out as usual, there will be fireworks, and not the pretty kind.

They radio for orders, but the reply is slow in coming. Bancoran is waiting patiently enough, but it doesn’t fool his younger lover. “I’ll slip in and look around,” he offers, pointing at the building she has disappeared into. “There’s a window open in the top flat.”

Of course it was all too easy. He lands in a half-crouch just inside the window, and the woman’s voice sounds low and urgent from the shadows: “Down and kiss the floor.”

Remembering the man’s gun, Maraich complies. The carpet smells of nameless things and stale beer, and his stomach roils. Bancoran, he decides, is going to be very nice to him. Whenever they managed to finish this job and get back home.

She’s wearing very lovely boots, expensive. He watches them come closer one slow step at a time and measures the distance. She stops just out of range, which raises his opinion of her intelligence. Marginally.

“Who are you?” she demands.

His opinion falls once more. “The tooth fairy.”

There’s a rather stunned silence, and then a slight snicker. “I suppose I asked for that.” He agrees, so he doesn’t bother to reply. “Let’s try again.” _Click._ “That was the safety. What’s your name?”

“If you shoot me all you’ll get is another messy stain on your carpet,” Maraich informs her calmly. He can feel his skin prickling with sweat, but he doubts it’s noticeable yet. All he needs is for her to take one more step….

“It’s not my carpet.” Her boots move, but now she’s circling around out of his line of sight. “Shall I start with a leg?”

Maraich sighs, using the movement to work one hand closer to his side. “I’m rather fond of them, actually.” Where the hell is Bancoran? “Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot,” she says, and he nearly moves too early, before realizing that this must be American slang.

“Is your taste in men really that bad?” he asks sweetly.

He can hear it, her step forward. “You’re not very bright are you, fair-“

Maraich doesn’t let her finish. He’s halfway up, and he has her jerked down beside him with one sharp kick to the knee. His arm wraps around her neck softly, like a lover’s embrace, but the grip is tighter than steel. “It’s not nice to call people names.”

“Maraich!” That’s Bancoran, three minutes late, as usual. He’s shoved the flat door open and he’s glaring. “What's taking you so long?”

Maraich shrugs, his arm tightening briefly. She gurgles in protest. “You wanted her alive, right?”

Bancoran picks up the woman’s dropped pistol and begins poking into corners. “Where’s the ‘sample’?”

It takes them some time, but they finally manage to bring all three prizes back to MI-6. The research staff is enchanted with the red ball and the papers, which would have amused Maraich if he hadn’t seen many of them look at Bancoran with that exact same light in their eyes. The American is handed over to the higher-ups, and Maraich is glad to see the last of her. She’d given him some nasty scratches.

They walk home, content to stroll along the streets at night. There’s something wonderful about nighttime in a city, even in the parts that close after five o’clock. The sky is more violet than black, and though he mourns the lack of stars Maraich loves that soft electric glow. It’s a reassurance of human presence all around.

“I need a bath,” he tells no one in particular.

Bancoran chuckles, low and warm in the dark. “Shall I wash your back, then?”

“You’d better.”


End file.
